


forever

by redreys



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Asexual Character, M/M, Martin loving poetry unleashes the poetry/writer nerd in me and there's nothing i can do about it, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), Sex-Repulsed Jon, Undressing Each Other, also this is very melancholic I think, i love them so much. they also love each other very much, lots of cuddling caresses and hand holding, love matters even if the world is ending and all of that, martin submits to the mortifying ordeal of being loved, post mag 159, tenderness is the only thing that matters and that's the ultimate truth, the one where Jon says I love you first. no jonny i dont accept constructive criticism, they both can't handle compliments in any capacity, though that /is/ the point, yet another scotland fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:39:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22024957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redreys/pseuds/redreys
Summary: the worst part is that Martin is used to love.the worst part is how beyond his reach it has always been— how infallibly he still chose it._________________Martin and Jon know they love each other. They just have to find the right way to show it, and somehow learn to believe it.They may not have much time, but they try anyway.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 71
Kudos: 233





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started this fanfiction almost by accident one night at three a.m. and it has ended up being very dear to my heart. I don't really know if it's any good but I sure hope it is! anyway thanks for reading 
> 
> (also, I don't know why it's all in lowercase. I apologise. it just sort of happened. the first chapter seemed very poetic and so my sleepy mind thought it might fit and I guess it stayed like that. once I had second thoughts I had finished the fanfic and couldn't bring myself to go back and change every first word of every sentence.)
> 
> (oh, and I have no beta and I am not a native speaker. we die like men?)

the worst part is that Martin is used to love.

the worst part is how beyond his reach it has always been— how infallibly he still _chose_ it.

he didn’t mind.

maybe that was why, he thinks. he paid the price, he didn’t mind the pain.

there was Jon, folded like an empty letter, all sharp edges and wasted space, and he looked at him every morning, and Jon only rarely looked back, and Martin didn’t mind. he was fine with loving, he was used to it.

why else? was there really, could there really have been another reason— any other reason to be lonely? Peter used to say that loneliness held meaning only when it was lonely _from_.

Martin never really knew what that meant. was it pride? did Peter think his choice was more valuable because it was the road less traveled? a deliberate escape rather than an invisible prison?

none of that made sense to him.

to Martin, loneliness meant longing— wanting to get to the other side of the river. exhaling that final breath, almost reaching out to touch the water, and failing. falling into the fog behind you, losing threads. helping from afar and listening attentively.

 _And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone—_

if he loved Jon from a distance, it was because he could do it in no other way.

he took care of him, brought him tea, told him to go to sleep, and let it be enough.

he would close his eyes, tucked away in his bed at night, and _pray_ , to a god he didn’t believe in, for Jon’s happiness.

he didn’t even ask to see it happening. and it wasn’t an obsession, not really:his prayer wasn’t simply the last necessary ritual after hours of endless repetition.

Martin did it in place of joy. he wished life into people he couldn’t be touched by, hoping the wish would come true, and found comfort in the silence.

and the pain— it was like a bridge. a connection, real and indisputable, of a love that was constantly there.

furthermore, it was simple. not twisted not obscure not mysterious nor dark. it was clear, see-through, monolithic. it hurt and Martin endured it, and he didn’t mind.

when Jon died, pain was his end of the string.

it hurts, it hurt: you were alive, once. it hurt: I loved.

_I thought / that pain meant / I was not loved. / It meant I loved._

_I don’t want you to go / pain, last form / of loving_.

Martin had never let his love alone. he had never hidden it, never covered its eyes, never attempted to delete its trace. he used to find comfort in that.

but he had seen Jon, lying in his hospital bed, and he had looked for his love everywhere, meticulously, dragging his eyes up and down Jon’s body, and hadn’t found it.

where had it all gone? had Jon ever felt it, at all?

_the worst part of trying to take care of you_ , Martin had written, once, _is that you don’t let me._

when Jon came back, holding love in his hands, Martin couldn’t reach back.

wouldn’t look too closely to name it. what could love be worth, after all, if the man to whom love belonged disappeared again?

and so Martin waited.

the bridge faded away, as the pain, too, began to slowly vanish, but still Martin waited. he didn’t mind.

when Jon asked him to run away with him, together somewhere, blind and free under the end of the world, Martin couldn’t hear him. he couldn’t feel it, he couldn’t believe it.

he could only long for the part of him that did.

that part moved, some days after Jon came storming into his office. out of the blue, it moved and pumped blood into his veins and Martin stopped and calmed down, and loved, for a moment. he hadn’t mind. he was used to it.

and it was only fair, that it wasn’t him.

it was only fair, that he could not say yes. it was only fair, that he hadn’t met Jon when he was twenty years old, in a grocery store aisle on a Wednesday evening. it was only fair, that Jon had never asked, never noticed, never loved back.

Martin was used to it. he didn’t mind.

he remembers the beach.

how safe it was. how profoundly devoid of bridges.

and Martin had tried, he had tried to long for the world outside of it, but couldn’t. there was nothing to long for. nothing to reach, no alternative to consider.

he remembers Jon’s figure, standing beside him, and he remembers it fading away like a dream.

_I really loved you, you know?_

it was a miracle. it was his treasure, his reason.

Martin had loved him. _really_ loved him. no strings attached, no gratitude needed. he had loved him for the sake of it. for the way he spoke, and the elegance of his hands, and the kindness hidden in the lines of his face— his relentless effort for more and for better, written in white all over the empty paper.

the worst part is that Martin is used to love like a writer that can’t read.

he stares at Jon’s hand, holding his, dragging him out of the institute, not a word spoken, not a question asked, and he is afraid to hold back.

he is terrified he will break it. he doesn’t have the courage to ask, to claim, to live.

he stares at Jon and can only think: _I did it. He is here and he has it_.

and there, he stops. he feels love, falling on him like rain, and he doesn’t know what to do with it. doesn’t know if he can take it. if the clouds will notice him smiling and simply disappear. 

it occurs to him that he has never felt it, that he is not sure of how to recognise it— that he has never had the freedom or the fortune to be loved back as _he_ has loved.

Jon turns towards him as they walk. for a moment, he just looks at him.

“are you okay?”, he asks.

 _I owe him this_ , he thinks, and, slowly, he shakes his head.

“alright,” Jon says, and Martin wonders if that’s what love looks like— if it always stored in the tears someone desperately tries to hold back.

“I will try to be,” Martin whispers.

Jon doesn’t reply. he squeezes his hand, once, and resumes walking.

* * *

the first word Martin learns is future.

it’s four in the morning. Martin brings his suitcase in his apartment’s living room. he doesn’t bother closing it first, so he carries it awkwardly, each half balanced on one of his hands. a single sock falls to the ground, and he doesn’t bother picking it up. Jon watches as Martin puts a pair of his shoes in a bag and shuffles it inside.

“are you sure that’s all you want to take?”

Martin looks up. he frowns.

Jon is sitting, legs crossed, on his couch. his clothes are wrinkled, damp from the rain, and his hair looks almost unclean.

he picks up a book from Martin’s side table, and hands to him.

“you haven’t finished this one,” he says.

in the space between them, Jon is holding Martin’s copy of The Neverending Story. there’s a bus ticket about one third in.

Martin takes it.

* * *

the second word is if.

the train has just started moving, and Martin is looking at the starless sky.

he knows he should sleep, so he tries. moves his arms, his legs, angles his head in all possible directions. it’s uncomfortable, and for a moment he wishes he could be invisible again. disappear from view so thoroughly that even _he_ forgets of his limbs, and skin, and stupid needs.

suddenly, Jon turns towards him. Martin can feel him breathing, anxiously trying to say something and failing. he tries to guess what he is thinking, and finds he has no idea. so he asks.

“what is it?”

“you can- you can lean on me, Martin.”

Martin laughs. dry and incredulous. he thinks of all the times he has found him sleeping on his desk, and wished to touch him— drag a chair beside him, rest his head on his back and just sit there. he thinks of the way it hurt, standing two feet away from him, his entire body reaching for his skin.

Jon looks down, embarrassed.

“only if you want to, of course.”

“I do,” Martin says, instantly, and out of the blue Jon smiles.

absurdly, he says: “I just meant- you don’t have to do it simply because I asked.”

Martin frowns. “you didn’t ask.”

“oh. right.”

Jon looks- flustered? embarassed? Martin notices it almost off-handedly. it's a sight he isn't used to.

“I wouldn’t lie to you, Jon.”

“I didn’t think you would. I only- I imagine you must feel overwhelmed right now, and I just want you to understand that if what brings you comfort is not what I expect, you only have to tell me.”

slowly, with an uncertainty that frankly terrifies him, Martin settles back in his seat, and leans his head on Jon’s shoulder. he presses closer to his side, and turns his face slightly, until he is breathing on the black of Jon’s coat.

“thank you,” he whispers, and then he closes his eyes and just tries to believe it.

he lets love into his body, and hopes it’ll reach the heart, the mind. the lungs.

“can I- can I hold your hand?” he asks, quickly so he can’t regret it, surprised he even has it in him to dare to ask for more, and Jon takes it without answering.

he laces their fingers together, and Martin wants to ask him why, but can’t.

he wants to ask Jon if he loves him, and how. since when. he wants Jon to list the reasons, to prove to him that he won’t die, that he won’t leave. that he won’t disappear.

he doesn’t.

instead, he taps Jon’s knuckles with the tips of his fingers.

Jon kisses his hair, once, and buries his face there.

Martin lets him.

* * *

the third word is coffee.

the room is crowded. people come and go, seemingly unaware of one another’s presence.

there’s a girl crying in a corner and an old man reading a newspaper a table over. he glances at her once, twice, and Martin can’t tell whether he is worried or annoyed.

there are two women standing right in the middle of the bar, arguing with each other over something unintelligible. a teenager, walking without looking, eyes locked on his phone-screen, almost crashes into one of them. the other sees it in time, and moves her friend (partner?) aside. 

she stops talking for a second to say _careful_ — not her, but to the boy.

 _sorry_ , he says, and he looks weirdly mortified.

the woman wavers a non-committal hand in his direction. _don’t worry. it’s fine_.

the boy nods and gets out of the bar.

suddenly, a man walks into Martin’s view just as the boy escapes it.

at first, Martin has trouble focusing on him. he is carrying two cups of coffee.

realistically, he knows it’s Jon as soon as he finds the time to blink and wake up from whatever absent-minded state he had fallen in, but he plays into the confusion. lets the lonely work on him just enough, until he can pretend this is the first time he ever sees him. the first impression he ever has of him.

_it’s his eyes_ , Martin thinks, then. _mostly, it’s just that._

_they look sincere._

“I bought you a coffee,” Jon says as he sits down, placing a white cap on Martin’s side of the table. “I know you said you didn’t want anything, but I thought we could-“

“it’s fine, Jon,” Martin says, smiling shyly. “thank you.”

seemingly reassured, Jon sighs and relaxes into his chair.

he leans in to take a sugar packet from the container, and Martin, still and silent, looks at his hand. he recognises all of his old wounds— it’s not the burned hand, but this one, too, is full of signatures— and frowns when he notices a new cut, standing out right on Jon’s index finger. almost unconsciously, he reaches out and touches it. Jon stops moving.

“when did this happen?” he asks, and Jon takes a second or two to work out exactly what Martin is referring to.

“it’s- it’s just a paper cut. I was flipping through a magazine on the train and you were sleeping and, well- it’s nothing, really.”

Martin drags his gaze from Jon’s hand to his eyes. he doesn’t let go and he almost dares Jon to do in his place. “okay,” he says, and waits for a punishment that doesn’t come.

when Jon moves his hand further into Martin’s space, and locks it gently around his wrist, he doesn’t find it in him to speak.

they have touched before.

Martin remembers Jon’s forehead against his in the Lonely. he has slept, pressed against him, during the entire train ride from London to Scotland, and it has been barely thirty minutes since that last one.

they have touched before. Martin knows this.

it still doesn’t feel like it.

“so. are you actually going to drink that coffee?” Jon asks.

“this is my right hand,” Martin says, looking at the one Jon has trapped under his, and Jon smiles.

“sorry.”

instantly, Jon lets Martin go, but before Martin has time to look down and fall back into his dark thoughts, whatever they might be, Jon raises his other hand. he turns it, then, palm up, and extends it for Martin to take.

Martin doesn’t know what his face looks like. he can’t really feel it.

but he assumes it must be showing _something_ , because although he doesn’t move, Jon reaches for Martin’s left arm with the tips of his fingers. he tugs at it, almost playfully, although Martin knows that Jon is not teasing. he is trying to welcome him in, he thinks. whatever that might take.

“this is _your_ right hand,” Martin says, at a loss for words, and Jon shrugs.

“I am ambidextrous.”

Martin frowns. “are you, really?”

he smiles wider. “when it’s convenient, yes.”

Martin is blushing. he feels it, this time.

slowly, he draws out his hand from where it was trapped, tucked between his belly and the edge of the table.

he gives it to Jon, who takes it in his as if it was normal, a familiar gesture practiced thousand of times over several years.

“you don’t look afraid,” Martin says, suddenly, without really knowing why.

“I’m having a coffee right now,” Jon says, “with Martin Blackwood, nonetheless. there are better times to be afraid.”

Martin closes his eyes, and finally returns the smile. “I suppose there are.”

* * *

the fourth word is not really a word, per se. if anything, the fourth word is silence.

  
Jon is sitting on the far end of the couch, sleeping soundly, and Martin is trying to understand just what he is supposed to do.

they are finally in Daisy’s safe-house. they have cleaned up a little, bought the necessary groceries from town and eaten some of them. Jon wanted to take a shower, but needed to “sit down for a few minutes first” and fell asleep in about forty seconds.

it’s barely six in the afternoon.

for a while, Martin just walks around the house, looking for nothing at all. he tries to picture living a life there. he doesn’t think he will get to, but he tries anyway.

he opens the drawers in the kitchen and he imagines his hand moving from muscle memory, picking up a cup that has become someone’s favorite (his, or Jon’s). he imagines breaking a plate one early morning, cleaning the table and thinking about finally buying a new Christmas tree.

maybe he has a boring job in town, maybe they both do, and they say _I’ll see you at home_ when they bump into each other in the streets, now familiar and crowded and kind.

he imagines Jon talking about his day and complaining about details no one noticed but him.

he tries to think of a version of himself that stays without fading. that laughs and makes jokes and comes with no baggage, and then he thinks _would that really be me?_ and he doesn’t know if he has an answer for that, so he hides into the colours of their garden, and the flowers that will bloom during the spring, and the stupid arguments Jon will try to have with him, and the ways in which Martin will try to convince him that _no, Jon. that doesn’t bother me, and even if it does it’s not like I don’t want to live with it_.

and again he imagines feeling loved, truly and genuinely so, and he doesn’t know how— so he comes back to the couch and he sits and he looks at Jon and hopes he is doing alight.

it’s absurd. Martin stares at Jon’s chest, slowly rising each time his body breathes, and _it’s absurd._

despite the horror they both went through, the dangers they have faced and will have to endure as long as they live, despite all of that, this moment— now, _here_ , is where Martin has a shot at understanding love. the world could end, Martin could wake up one day and discover that the Lonely has claimed him again and there is no way to bring himself back, and still. still, Jon is alive and breathing four feet away from him and this their moment. and it is fleeting and insignificant and the universe won’t bother remembering it and it shouldn’t even matter, but it is their moment and it is real and Martin wants it for the sake of it.

_You are here— and thus you must go / You will pass— and therein lies the beauty._

_here_ , Martin thinks. here where I can’t feel my hands but can see you, _do_ see you.

he wants to sink into his past and tell himself to go look for Jon sooner, but the point is that he has, he did. so what, is this the only way it could have happened? at the cost of people’s lives?

suddenly, Jon moves in his sleep. his right leg twitches and he makes a non-committal sound.

it doesn’t seem like a nightmare, so Martin’s soft smile is mostly justified.

he is… god, Martin doesn’t want to say pretty, but something along those lines.

even now. even still.

Martin gets up and closes all the curtains. double-checks the lock on the door, and goes into the bedroom to take a blanket. he comes back to the couch and he tries his best not to wish he were alone. Jon is still sleeping.

the couch is surprisingly big, considering how small the house is, but it still isn’t exactly comfortable. Martin lies down, his head resting on a tiny cushion, and he tries to make himself smaller. there is no way, however, that he can do this without touching Jon at all.

and so, gently, he presses his feet into Jon’s tight, and waits to see if that will wake him up.

it doesn’t.

Martin hides his head under the blanket and feels the warmth of Jon’s body, rushing into him through that single point of contact,

he thinks of tomorrow, and in the silence he falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone—" is from "Alone", by Edgar Allan Poe.  
> "I thought / that pain meant / I was not loved. / It meant I loved." is from "First Memory", by Louise Glück.  
> "I don’t want you to go / pain, last form / of loving. " is by Pedro Salinas, specifically from his collection My Voice Because of You.  
> "You are here— and thus you must go / You will pass— and therein lies the beauty." is from "Nothing Twice" by Wisława Szymborska (my favorite poet and spiritually my wife. I need to stress this every time I mention her or I will explode). I actually had to translate this line myself from Polish to English using like, reverso context, since the English translation was wildly different from the original Polish


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for alcohol in the third scene (they drink some wine + they don't get excessively drunk, just tipsy).  
> in that same scene there's some talk about sex, and Jon specifically talks about being sex-repulsed. i hope he doesn't come across ad judgmental [in fact, if you are ace and judgemental about sex as a concept, i dont like you] but he still explains what specifically he doesn't understand about sex when he applies to concept to himself, prompted by martin's question. it was liberating for me to write about sex-repulsion in the context of a safe space where the other person is okay with listening to such a rant, but again, this is about sharing an experience and not about hating sex for fun. if that doesn't come across, feel free to tell me, and thanks for reading

at two in the morning, Jon wakes up.

he feels stiff and uncomfortable and initially he can’t even tell where he is. he is very close to getting to the kidnapping conclusion _again_ , when he feels Martin moving beside him.

_shit._

_shit shit shit_ he had not meant to fall asleep, not when Martin was still up.

he looks around in the darkness of the room, panicked, for a second wondering whether the Eye would ever give him cat eyes or something, until he resigns to calming down.

it’s fine. it’s probably fine.

Martin seems— he sounds okay.

and he, well. there is quite a large bed in Daisy’s bedroom, plus an inflatable mattress somewhere in the house, according to Basira. but Martin is _here_. right, of course. he is here.

Jon takes in a breath and wishes with his entire being that he were just a little more omniscient, and could simply Know how to help Martin. see clearly all the lines, and make sure not to cross any of them.

_god_ , Jon loves him so much.

there was a time where he would have tried to rationalise it, contextualise it in some way or give it a precise cause, so that maybe putting it away could have been slightly easier, but he knows now that this is not the kind of thing that lends itself to simplifications. no name, no case mark, no rituals or sudden epiphanies. it had happened, for some imprecise reason and at an unidentifiable moment, and it had stayed put in Jon’s mind because despite everything he has ever claimed, a small and absolutely relentless part of Jon had always made an effort to keep it there.

and now they are both here he just wants to live it, and it’s like the world won’t let them, and he refuses to accept that.

in the darkness, Jon smiles to himself.

 _of course_ the first thing he does after waking up in the middle of the night, fully clothed and not even laying horizontally, is thinking about Martin. it’s a bit ridiculous, but he doesn’t find it in himself to make up a joke.

_okay_ , he thinks, eventually, _okay. maybe I should stand up._

leaving Martin alone is out of the question, and the process of finding and inflating the second mattress would probably wake him up, so the choice is between sleeping in his current spot or on the carpet. in either case, however, he absolutely needs to stretch his legs.

as silently as he can, he gets up and takes the phone out of his pocket. he lights up the screen, theoretically to light up the way, but stops to look at Martin before he can help it.

he is sleeping on his side, and one of his legs hangs down from the couch. the blanket covers him only in halves, folding across the wrong lines.

he looks tired. his arms are wrapped around his own shoulders, as though he was cold, or maybe trying to shelter from a threat Jon can’t see.

Jon kneels beside him, and without touching him he rests his forehead on the arm of the couch and listens to Martin’s breathing. _please don’t die_ , he thinks, and it’s the wrong thought but it sticks anyway. _please don’t force me to let you go_.

minutes go by until Jon’s legs start to hurt.

he gets up again, nonchalantly, almost unbothered by the intensity of his worries, used as he is to the fear and the terror and the longing for a future Jon is almost certain he will not get to touch, and simply walks up to the kitchen. drinks a glass of water and comes back.

gently, he leans down on Martin’s body and takes the blanket in his hands— stretches it so that it fits better. he puts it over Martin’s shoulder and he lets his hands linger in the corners.

the last thing he needs to do before going back to his spot is looking up at Martin’s face, just once more, if only to check that he still sleeping peacefully, and it’s then that he finds that his eyes are slightly open. _must have woken him up_ , he thinks, and he feels his cheek warm up at the thought of Martin faking sleep as Jon tries to take care of him.

“sorry,” he says, instinctively.

looking lovely, clearly confused and incredibly sleepy, Martin wavers his hand in the air until he finds Jon’s wrist and closes it around it.

Jon opens his mouth and doesn’t say anything.

“don’t” Martin whispers.

“I’m not- I am not doing anything.”

Martin makes a sound, like a hum but less content and yet still… nice, and brings Jon’s hand closer to his body. Jon has no idea what to do.

“I am not going away, Martin,” he says, in lieu of anything more coherent, and Martin frowns.

“you’ll hurt your back if you keep sleeping like that,” he whispers, slowly, but still managing to sound more awake than he looks.

Jon smiles. “that’s… definitely a possibility”

Martin shakes his head vigorously, and tucks Jon’s hand under his own cheek. wordlessly, he turns his face into it.

“you shouldn’t— sleep like that, Jon” he says into his skin, and Jon feels himself shaking and he almost laughs.

“and what’s your alternative, Mr. Blackwood?” he asks, though he thinks Martin is too tired to pick up on the teasing. he sort of hopes that he is.

Martin stretches on the couch, extends his legs and moves to lie on his back. he lets go on Jon’s hand, and then, eyes closed, almost translucent in the faint light of Jon’s phone, he opens his arms.

“I am sorry?” Jon asks, and Martin doesn’t even bother answering.

there are several points to be made, one of which that there is a large, comfortable bed in this house.

Jon doesn’t make them, though, nor wants to.

he puts his phone down and climbs into Martin’s arms.

it’s ridiculous and sloppy and immensely awkward. the blanket constantly gets in the way, Jon can’t figure out how to move without hurting him, and on more than one occasion he accidentally plants his knee on Martin’s leg.

“sorry, sorry,” he mumbles, and Martin laughs under him.

they rearrange themselves around each other until they only sort of fit.

Martin is overall bigger and slightly taller than him, and Jon suspects it must not be comfortable, sleeping with someone else’s entire body weight on top of you.

Martin doesn’t complain, though. he lets him lay on his chest, an arm thrown around his waist, face resting just under Martin’s chin, and closes his own arms around Jon’s back.

“okay,” says Jon, exhaling air as if someone had just planted a needle in his skin, although if it feels like anything, it’s the opposite of that. “okay. this is- okay.”

and, again, Martin _laughs_. Jon doesn’t remember hearing Martin’s genuine laugh since before he woke up from that coma. it shakes throughout Jon’s body and he gets goosebumps all over his skin. he can feel his body trembling, so much so that he fears he might actually cry if he doesn’t try to compose himself.

and, sure enough, as he smiles he feels his eyes begin to water, wide and happy.

“you stop that,” Jon says, meaning nothing of it, and Martin doesn’t.

“don’t try to blame this on me,” he says through his giggling, and Jon fakes a sigh and pushes closer, tightening his grip on Martin’s waist.

“I dislike you,” he whispers, shy and absurdly delighted. every single point of contact burns his skin, and it’s the polar opposite of a lightless flame. it’s bright and alive and it does not hurt.

Martin doesn’t answer, just eventually he stops laughing.

when Jon is almost certain he is falling back to sleep, the last word he says to him is _thanks_.

it’s silly, uncharacteristic of him and it doesn’t really mean anything, but he says it and he means it.

he is convinced Martin hasn’t heard him, until he feels a hand land through his hair.

 _thank you_ , he thinks again, without saying it out loud, and lets himself fall back to sleep.

* * *

in the morning, Martin is quiet.

it’s hard to watch him change. to hear the _click_ of the wheels and watch his face fall, darken under the faint comfort of the kitchen’s lightbulbs. there’s something moving inside of him, Jon thinks, a burden that takes up too much space, a silent rule that doesn’t let him speak, a fear so absolute that facing it must seem impossible.

he is sitting on a chair, flipping through a weird fashion magazine he found god knows where in the house, with an absent, utterly uninterested expression on his face, and Jon can see his hands shaking. ever so slightly.

it might just be the Lonely’s grip, or what’s left of it, but, perhaps selfishly, Jon doesn’t care what it is. he just wants it gone.

he wonders if that’s how Martin felt.

if he, too, physically ached at the sight of Jon, distant and cold, paranoid and insufferable, frowning over a statement in the darkness of his office.

_is that why you brought me tea all those times?_ he thinks, and he stares at Martin with such an intensity that he is afraid he’ll somehow compel him into answering. in all honesty, he still can’t make sense of that. Martin had almost no reason to like him, much less to actively take care of him.

a part Jon feels guilty. if Martin just hadn’t met him— then maybe nothing bad would have happened. if Martin had been just a little less loving and a little less forgiving, if he had thought of Jon as the pathetic rude asshole he seemed to be, and hadn’t tried to dive any further, then perhaps he would have been okay by now.

_I was all on my own— not anymore._

_not anymore_ , Jon repeats in his head, like a mantra, and tries and tries not to frame himself as a monster. he thinks of the few happy memories he shares with Martin— small moments of light distilled into horror and miscommunication and absence.

he brings them into focus, and says to himself: _that might be me_.

_that person who fell from his chair during a late work night, and was found cursing himself on the floor. that man and his wide eyes suddenly focused on Martin, dressed in blue pyjamas and white socks, staring at him from the door frame._

_the way he laughed— the way they both eventually laughed. Jon who pretended to forget, Martin who didn’t even try._

_that might be me,_ Jon thinks. _and even then, I can always do better._

_next time, I can remember._

eventually, Martin looks up, perhaps catching up on all the endless staring. he opens his mouth as if to say something, but no sound comes out of it.

“do you want to go for a walk?” Jon asks, aiming for gentle and falling on pleading, and Martin, miraculously, nods.

and so they go.

as they walk, they don’t touch. they barely say or do anything at all.

at some point, Jon finds a spot he likes under a big tree, and gestures for them to stop there.

it’s isolated and relatively silent and the tree looks beautiful. immediately, Martin sits down, right under it, and Jon is left alone, just sort of awkwardly standing there.

he is startled to begin with, but there’s— there’s something weird with Martin’s posture, the way he breathes and the shape of his spine. he seems to be waiting, somehow, and Jon can't tell what for. 

or, well. he can, and he is just terrified he might have guessed wrong. 

“Jon?”

Martin’s voice is a whisper. uncertain and broken and unapologetically bare.

Jon moves towards him, slow and hesitant, and eventually sits, crossed legs, directly behind him. their bodies still don’t touch.

“can I hug you?” Jon asks, and he watches Martin’s head move up and down, silently nodding.

and so he does.

he presses himself into his back, wraps his arms around his belly, and rests his head on his shoulder.

Martin takes in a breath and makes a sound that could be either a laugh or a sob. Jon doesn’t bother investigating it. he just starts moving his hands in small circles, soothing and gentle, and Martin covers them with his, softly so that Jon doesn’t get the wrong idea and stops.

Jon has always had a weird relationship with touch. even in its most casual forms, it never seemed to register as anything but intimate.

overtime, he had made a habit of unconsciously flinching away from contact, either because he didn’t want to act intimately with that specific person, or, often more frequently, because he did but he was never sure if he was allowed.

touching Martin by his own volition feels revolutionary. it helps to see how much Martin seems comforted by the contact, it helps to know Jon is doing it for him, too. but as he holds him, and chooses where to put his hands, arms, head, he knows this is for him, too.

loving Martin is an action. it has a shape and a smell and a colour, and even though its object is another person, it has its effects on him, too. he is not happy exclusively because he feels loved by Martin— it feels good to love him, all on its own.

and he wonders, then, if he is loving him “correctly”.

he knows, he can _feel_ the walls he carefully built over years of losses and traumas, standing in between him and his voice, taking out words and thoughts before they can get to through his mouth, and suddenly he doesn’t how if he wants to leave these walls alone.

the point is that Jon is keenly aware they haven’t truly talked yet.

some of these conversations are complex and he will start them only when Martin feels ready, if he ever does. but some aren’t.

some, consist of three words and are actually pretty straightforward.

there isn’t any “correct” way to love people, Jon knows this. you can try to avoid mistakes, but doing the right thing is an extremely blurry concept. there are no easy choices, especially not in their situations. Jon is, again, aware of that.

but when he thinks of Martin —Martin the poet, the carer, the aching loner, the cunning survivor—he wants to reach through. he wants Martin to feel seen, touched, loved back. and, maybe, just maybe, words could help.

it’s stupid, really. ridiculous, when it comes down to it.

he wants Martin to hear those words, and he _means_ them, and still he can’t say them.

he is sure that if he let a few days go past, Martin would say it first. whisper it.

 _I love you,_ under a blanket. in front of an open fridge, over dinner. or perhaps in the middle of the day, standing in an open field.

eventually, Martin will say it, and Jon just wants him to hear it first.

he feels the conviction, the wish sink inside him, and it’s terrifying.

 _I have to say it_ , he thinks, suddenly. _I have to say it now._

it’s both a burden and a beautiful, irresistible strike of his will. he has to say it because he wants to. because Martin shrinks under sunlight and fades away when nobody is looking, and Jon wants him to have this, at least this. unprompted and unconditional.

his heart beats so ridiculously fast and he tries to breathe. in and out. in and out.

“Martin?” he says, eyes closed.

“I am here,” Martin replies, low and fragile, and Jon, mind suddenly emptied, speaks.

“I just- I was thinking about, umh. Just generally about… you? and I- I only wanted to tell you that. I only meant to- to say that I- I was just… as I said, I was thinking.”

_okay, not going well. definitely not going well._

“Jon,” Martin starts, almost endeared, “is there a point to this?”

Jon laughs at the tone of his voice, relieved, and on instinct holds him closer, raises his head a little so that he can rest his forehead just beneath Martin’s neck. Martin almost immediately leans back into his touch, and Jon smiles.

“yes, there is. I just-“

“whatever it is, you don’t- I mean, we can always talk about it another day.”

 _but I want to talk about it now_ , Jon thinks, and he keeps expecting to be moved by instinct, he is waiting to feel the need to interrupt Martin with it, and say it, just say it, but it doesn’t seem to work like that.

silence falls again, and Jon’s heart is building up tension instead of slowing down.

he knows that Martin loves him back, and he knows Martin already knows Jon loves him, and yet. and yet.

he waits for so long he is afraid Martin might forget he wanted to say anything at all.

and then, when it feels so deliberate and cheesy and intense that it’s starting to become absurd, he opens his eyes again.

“I love you,” he goes, quietly, and moves his hands so to take Martin’s in his. “I love you,” he repeats, words tingling on his lips, and it’s like opening Pandora’s box. there’s so much of it and now it’s so easy to let it all out. 

Martin doesn’t speak. he doesn’t even move or squeeze Jon’s hands.

Jon’s blood freezes abruptly, and his smile dies on his lips. it’s not that he was expecting Martin to say it back, not at all, actually— it’s that it feels like Martin just stopped moving altogether, somehow by choice, and Jon is irrationally afraid he might have stopped breathing, too. 

a few moments go by in utter silence, until Jon notices that Martin is shaking. Jon opens his mouth to say something, but Martin, as if on cue, clutches at Jon’s hands, holds on to them hard enough to hurt, and starts crying.

Jon moves his thumbs on Martin’s skin, slowly, and it’s just another shade of desperation. he feels the edge of Martin’s knuckles under his fingerprints with the same intensity with which he aches under his grip, and both actions are of the same colour.

he waits until Martin lets go of his hands to wipe his tears.

then, as gently as he can, Jon untangles his body from Martin’s and moves around to face him. Martin has both of his eyes covered by his palms, and his face hidden under his forearms.

Jon reaches out and wraps his finger around Martin’s wrists, tentatively so to give Martin the space to flinch, say no, shake them off. Martin doesn’t, however, and so Jon waits with him. he doesn’t push down or tries to get him to look at him. he simply lets him cry.

some time passes. by all stretch of the imagination, it can’t have been more than ten minutes, but it feels like hours.

Martin cries and cries and Jon sits still, arms and hands unmoving.

eventually, Martin calms down and stops weeping. Jon moves away, and takes a tissue out of his pocket. he taps Martin’s shoulder and waits for his red, tired eyes to look into his.

“here,” he says, voice small and gentle, and hands it to him. Martin takes it. he blows his nose with it and puts it back into his jacket.

he looks back up at Jon, then, and smiles weakly.

“I am sorry,” he says.

“what for?”

Martin laughs a little, incredulous, and gestures at his face and body. “this,” he goes, and Jon shakes his head.

“you don’t have to apologise.”

Martin takes in a breath and nods. “I know,” he whispers, uncertain and determined at the same time, as if he was trying to convince himself. “I know.”

“do you want to talk about it?” Jon asks.

“maybe. I don’t know how to explain it.”

“it’s alright, you don’t have to worry about finding the right words for everything just yet.”

“I know, but it’s still- I want to tell you, and all the words I can seem to conjure in my head are a rip-off from this one poem,” he says, and just as Martin’s mouth closes around the _m_ of poem, Jon hears it.

it’s a weird feeling. he doesn’t necessarily listens to it, as if it was a sound, but the words come to him fluidly, and he feels the gentle pull of the Eye, delivering the lines to his memory.

helplessly, Jon finds himself reciting them.

“ _I hunted in alphabets sleeping in the water,_ ” he begins, under Martin’s astonished gaze, _“in virgin dictionaries naked and ownerless, for those loose letters that you might put together and did not tell me. one day at last you spoke, but so deeply in the soul, so remote, that your voice was a pure shadow of a voice, and I could never hear it._ ”

“how did you-“

“I have no idea.”

to Jon’s utter surprise, Martin smiles. lovingly, almost. awed.

“your voice makes it sound even more beautiful than it already is,” he says, earnest, and Jon has no idea what to answer to that, and so he doesn’t. Martin smiles, clearly delighted by Jon’s awkwardness in the face of compliments, and Jon can only stare back. 

how is it that Martin always manages to be the brave one even when he is the one in need of comfort?

“anyway, your voice aside,” Martin says, only a few seconds later, as if nothing had happened, “Ithink I have always seen a little bit of myself in that poem. I mean I have spent so much time dreaming about- you, I guess, and now that you are actually here I feel like I can’t hear you properly. your voice doesn’t register as real. in a way, my mind is convinced it _can’t_ be real. and I hate that, so much, because I know you wouldn’t lie, and I know that you meant what you said. I only- I wish I could believe you, Jon.”

uncontrollably and almost unconsciously, Jon moves closer and takes one of Martin’s hands. he brings it up to his mouth and rests his lips on Martin’s skin. “you will, I promise,” he says. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Martin’s eyes look a little teary at that. alarmed, Jon lets go of his hand.

“sorry, sorry, I don’t mean to overwhelm you-“

“no,” Martin goes, and reaches back for his hand, “no, it helps. it really does. I know this is isn’t easy for you, and I know that it must have been really hard for you to say that out loud. I am just not prepared for this. I don’t know how to do it.”

“you don’t know how to… be loved?”

Martin laughs. “yeah,” he says, and self-consciously scratches his neck with his free hand. “I guess so. I have always felt like I had to earn it.”

“I don’t love you because of what you have done for me, Martin,” Jon says, and it’s absurd that now the words come so natural to him, “but even if I did— you _have_ earned it.”

Martin shrugs. “maybe,” he says.

Jon gets closer, and cups Martin’s cheek with his hand. “you would deserve it even if this was the first time we ever saw each other.”

Martin smiles. “I love you, too, you know,” he says, seemingly without reason, and Jon smiles back, wide and sincere, and wonders who managed convince Martin that he wasn’t worthy of love, and how. and _why_. he almost asks Martin if he wants Jon to try to sort of- put the knowledge into him, somehow, but he knows he wouldn’t want that. it wouldn’t feel real. wouldn’t feel true.

so he just says: “thank you”, and silently lets it be enough.

Martin blushes. he turns his head into Jon’s touch and kisses his palm.

the sun is still high in the sky, and it feels good.

* * *

neither of them can cook, that much is clear, but at least they manage not to burn down the kitchen. Martin wanted to make some pasta, and Jon had agreed, thinking _there’s no way we are gonna fuck up pasta_ but it inevitably ends up being severely overcooked.

they didn’t really bother looking for a tablecloth, so what they have now is two mismatched plates on bare wood, a bottle of wine, and two plastic glasses.

“this is terrible,” Jon says, on his second bite, and Martin laughs.

“’s not that bad.”

“you are liar and you know it.”

Martin laughs again, and pours himself some wine. “you _are_ a drama queen, though.”

Jon frowns. “I am sorry?”

Martin just giggles a little, and neglects to answer. there’s a lot of joy in his eyes— shiny and, in a sense, defiant.Jon doesn’t know how Martin manages to be so vulnerable and yet so unapologetic at the same time, to go from desperate to happy in the span of two hours. _it’s a form of magic_ , he thinks, and can’t help but stare at him, stunned by how pretty Martin looks.

he has a red sweater on, and his hair is a little overgrown, his brownish curls tucked behind his ears. he has a few freckles scattered on his skin, but they go unnoticed if one hasn’t been staring for a long time. oh, and a dimple on just one of his cheek. big hands. bright eyes.

“sorry, don’t mean to objectify you,” he starts saying, and it’s probably because they opened the wine _while_ they were making dinner that he finds himself unwilling to stop, “but you are beautiful, you know. properly so.” 

Martin turns _red_. the reddest of red, in about half a second, and almost chokes on the food. “what?”

Jon leans forward, elbows on the table and face in his hand, and looks at him openly, plainly.

and it’s then, eyes locked in Martin's and alcohol pushing the words out of his mouth, that he abruptly decides to combine two conversations in one. doing this sober would have probably been a wiser choice, but when has Jon ever been wise?

“you are aware that the only reason I haven’t kissed you is because I don’t like kissing, right?”

Martin’s expression turns confused, embarrassment momentary forgotten, and then briefly transitions through something else entirely before eventually cycling back to flustered.

“there’s a lot to unpack here,” he says, and a small part of Jon is surprised to find his tone to be a lot of things, but not judgemental.

“yes,” he says. “first off, I think you are beautiful.”

Martin shuts his eyes for a moment, half theatrical and half still genuinely flustered. “stop saying it, please?”

Jon knows he doesn’t mean it, so he goes over the word again. just the one, slow and teasing, and it almost doesn’t sound like an adjective anymore. “beautiful,” he says, as it if was a term of endearment, and who knows. it might be.

Martin’s smile widens and he bites his lips when he realises it. “I am never letting you drink wine again.”

Jon laughs, feeling victorious and young. “aren’t you, now. just wait until I unlock the full cheesiness package and start calling you sweetheart even when I am sober.”

“you wouldn’t.”

Jon raises his eyebrows and takes a sip from his glass, not wanting to even look at the pasta. “just you wait.”

Martin rolls his eyes, _clearly_ pleased, and then asks: “what about the second part?”

“uhm, yes,” Jon starts, and despite everything, the end of the world and all the loving and all the pain they have been through, he is still a little afraid to go over this. “I don’t exactly like sex, or kissing, really. well I like closed-mouth kisses, just not- full-on make-out session, you know? sorry if that’s a bit of a… bummer.”

“asexual?” Martin asks, hesitantly but attentively. curious but not disappointed.

“yes, that’s the word. it has nothing to do with you, it’s just the way I am, I don’t want you to think I somehow find you-”

“I don’t- think that,” Martin says. “and it’s not a bummer. I don’t care about that.”

Jon nods, relieved though he wasn't exactly expecting rejection. it's just- residual anxiety. natural fear when you feel you are demanding more than you are giving. “that is nice to hear. do you want more details, though? I just... I want to make sure you are not underestimating just how much I don’t like sex.”

Martin sighs, sort of annoyed at the implication that he might have assumed Jon was kidding about that, which, fair. it's hard to parse through this conversation, even when Jon knows that most of this is gonna be about his insecurities, rather than Martin's words. “I think you are underestimating how much I like you,” Martin ends up saying, and Jon smiles, calmer now. 

“umh,” he replies, a bit stupidly, and Martin smiles back.

“c’mon,” he says, playful and welcoming, “let's talk about it. show me how I'm underestimating that, and let's see if it'll shock me."

Jon feels blood rush to his ears and sees Martin looking. this is... endearing, in a way. it is comforting. when Jon speaks up, it stops feeling like a confrontation, and it becomes about sharing his experience to someone who will listen.

“I don’t understand tongues. I don’t know why you would want two tongues to touch. absolutely unfathomable.”

“That's... interesting?” Martin says, and Jon lets out a bit of a laugh. 

“I find the idea of putting things in holes nonsensical," he adds, and, this time, it's Martin who laughs first. 

“I’m sorry?” 

“I mean, I- I understand that it brings people pleasure and I am in no way saying it's somehow unpure, I just don't- I don't get it, at all. like, if I were an alien you showed a picture of the human body, and then asked me 'what do people do to make each other feel intense satisfaction' I would not have guessed _that_.”

“maybe you just lack imagination,” Martin says, with an earnest tone just so it more obviously sounds like a joke, and Jon shrugs. Martin's not strickly wrong, all in all. 

“it just always feels like it would feel sort of claustrophobic. for both parts.”

Martin squints, moving his head left and right, as if trying to gather the right words in his head. “that’s, kind of the point?”

“well, then i don't get it."

“that's fine. i guess it's the kind of thing that either you feel or you don't."

"makes sense to me," Jon concludes, looking down, and Martin nudges him with his foot.

"well, are you giving up now? don’t you have anything else to say?”

 _You are cute_ , Jon thinks, unprompted, but this time the wine can’t get him to say that. there's a coherent reply he has to come up with. “alright. mh, well. let’s just say I think genitals are... underwhelming. do people find them genuinely nice to look at?”

“it pretty much depends on the person. you do more than just look. I mean, they _can_ be quite nice to look at, but some people don’t really care much for the visuals. and, well, you don’t exactly look at them as though they were a regular part of a person’s body. it feels different. intimate and maybe sort of forbidden.”

“okay, I can see that. at least theoretically.”

“how does it feel? for you, i mean. how do you see all of this?” Martin asks, and he sounds simply interested. Jon usually doesn’t like being questioned on the subject of his asexuality, perhaps because the questions often seem to aim at dismantling his identity rather than try to understand it, and so it’s nice to see genuine interest in Martin’s eyes.

“it feels... neutral, like a smell I don't like,” he says. “I mean, I am not actually disgusted by sex per se, and I may like reading about it if it’s in a good scene and in a good book. it, umh- it simply does not work on me.”

“okay,” Martin replies, as if they were talking about each other taste in music, and Jon feels comfortable. what’s more, he _wants_ to talk about this. wants Martin to know him, listen to what he has to say. and he feels completely safe in saying it. 

it’s a new feeling. a nice one.

and so he starts talking.

he describes how it feels (“the way I see it, everyone has these weird buttons that get them to feel these specific sensations. I am not opposed to the sensations, I understand that they can be intensely pleasing, and I like that you can get someone else to access them. I have learned over time which buttons leads to which feeling, but I, myself, just don’t have the buttons. at times I have felt my body sort of asking for them, slightly pushing at the edge of my mind, but I never wanted to do anything about it because, again, I don’t have the buttons. I have tried looking for them but I never found them, and when I think about just doing the things I know other people do on myself, or let those people do it on me, it feels like something I wouldn't enjoy. so I never tried and don’t really plan to”) and Martin listens attentively, and nods, and then eventually ends up telling him about himself, too. he tells him about his first time, and things he likes, and why, and it is- interesting. balanced. healthy. it's okay that they are different, and it doesn't prevent them from meeting in the middle.

they talk about a bit of everything, then.

songs, respective dream jobs when they were children (explorer for Jon, astronaut for Martin, and they aren’t really that dissimilar when you think about it), ideal houses and favourite restaurants.

the pasta quickly gets cold and they just throw it out and end up eating ice-cream.

when Jon looks at the clock he is surprised to find that it’s two a.m. in the morning.

he doesn’t care, though.

he is happy. maybe he won’t be happy tomorrow, maybe he’ll be dead in a month, but he is happy now. _as far as you’ve come / can’t be undone_ , he thinks, weirdly pleased to find the memory of a poem somewhere in his head, and smiles.

happy, he can do. he might even get used to it.

* * *

Jon is dreaming a desert before Martin awakens him.

he is in the middle of a sandstorm, and he keeps turning around thinking someone is looking, someone is coming to get him, and there is just the fear and the sand and the terrifying awareness of being followed, and then a moment goes by in silence and all that’s left is the pressure of Martin’s warm hand, moving gently through his hair.

he blinks, taking a second too long to realise the desert was a dream and Martin’s hand isn’t, and then he moves his head slightly, looking up to see Martin, smiling and sitting on a chair just beside him.

“you just won’t stop falling asleep on desks, will you?” he asks, and Jon sighs. his back hurts.

“wasn’t planning to,” he says. “was only waiting for you to come back.”

Martin’s hand stops ruffling Jon’s hair, and now only his fingerprints move, curling and uncurling on his skin. “you could have waited for me on the couch,” he says.

“I didn’t want to fall asleep.”

Martin laughs. “what a successful strategy you have come up with.”

Jon straightens himself a little, and Martin’s hand retracts respectfully. _I love you_ , he thinks, instinctively, and then he turns his chair so that now it faces Martin’s. he plants his feet on the floor and moves it forward, just a little, until he can lower his torso on Martin’s tights, and rest his head there, comfortably laying on his crossed arms.

“what are you doing?” Martin asks, and immediately he has both hands in his hair.

“resting,” Jon says.

outside, it’s already dark. Jon can see it without looking, though he is not paying attention now.

Martin still has his coat on, but he has taken off his gloves. he has these blue gloves, soft and almost too big for his already big hands, and he wears them everywhere they go, keeping them in the house, too, sometimes.

his hands get cold very often, apparently. Jon resists the urge of taking one off to hold his hand only on good days.

“love?”

Jon can feel the hesitancy in Martin’s voice. it is hard for him to find the confidence to call him that, especially because he means it— which is why he makes a point of saying it.

Jon shivers every single time.

“hm?” he replies, and Martin shakes him gently.

“we have to get up.”

Jon lets out a sight before squeezing Martin’s leg with one of his hands. “alright,” he says.

they do get up, then, and the first thing Jon does it sleepily falling into Martin’s arms. Martin laughs. “that kind of defeats the purpose of getting up.”

“who cares,” Jon says, voice low, and then decides to be at least a little helpful. he brings his hands between Martin’s body and his, and, silently, still pressed against him, unzips Martin’s coat. the plan is to fully take it off, but he can’t resist the urge, and so he ends up wrapping his arms around him from under the coat. he feels Martin kissing the top of his head, and smiles.

eventually, Jon takes a step back and gently pushes the coat off of Martin’s shoulders, stopping only when the coat falls on the floor. “sorry,” he says, sounding unapologetic, and Martin _blushes_.

“shut up,” he whispers, and turns around to pick it up and put it on a chair.

when he looks back at him, Jon immediately moves to take off his scarf. Martin just stares at him, cheeks red, and Jon wonders how he feels. the question comes up again, relentless and indiscriminate: _can he feel it? can he feel that I love him?_

from the moment he wakes up to the moment he goes to sleep, everything Jon does is done in an effort to reach through the gap between Martin’s mind and his heart, and let him know.

he hasn’t had much time to practice yet (after all, it has only been a few days), but he tries in any way he can. he talks to him, tells him the secrets he can bare to voice, makes him dinner and caresses his skin. there are some things he can’t do, however, and sometimes he wonders if that wouldn’t just be the thing that would get to him. if, for instance, having sex with him wouldn’t matter more than Jon can foresee.

he can never bring himself to actually consider it, because it is just too alien, and frankly too unsettling of a concept to him, but he mourns his lack of desire. he wishes he could let him know in silence, more intensely than a caress can manage. like those scenes in the movies, when two characters are having sex, or perhaps kissing, and they lose track of time until suddenly one of them says _I think we may have gotten carried away_ and they both laugh and look at each other and smile.

Jon so wishes there was a way for Martin to feel and _be_ carried away in his arms, and just forget about the time and be lost in an action, a movement, a moment of silence, and he mourns all the ways in which he can’t make it happen.

if there’s a thing he does like about sex, however, is taking off each other’s clothes.

he likes how vulnerable it feels, how rare to trust someone else enough to let them peel off your protection towards the cold, and the touches and the gazes of those you don’t deem worthy of looking at you when you are bare.

Jon knows it’s not always that romantic, and most definitely not often that rare, but he can’t experience it in any other way, and so, for him, it can only be romantic, and it can only be rare, or it doesn’t make sense. he looks at Martin, then, and wonders if he can dare to ask.

he doesn’t know if he can, he _never_ knows if he can, but he loves him still, each time. and so he asks anyway.

“what if, what if I wanted to undress you?”

Martin raises his eyes to meet Jon’s. he look surprised, but not scared. “what do you mean?”

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. it wouldn’t be in any way sexual for me, and of course I only want to do this if it is something you want, too, so just tell me if you don't like the idea. but, yes, I do think I would- enjoy taking off your clothes. you could do the same, if you wanted.”

“why?” Martin asks, and he looks sort of intrigued. so Jon takes in a breath and keeps talking.

“I like the idea of being naked with you, I think. I like having no physical defences between you and me. getting as- close as it can be.”

“sure,” Martin says, almost immediately. "I'd like that."

“really?” Jon asks, and Martin nods.

“really. I am not going to feel turned on if we don't do anything actually sexual, but if I somehow do I will tell you immediately, and we can stop.”

“okay,” Jon says. “do you want to go to our bedroom?”

Martin frowns. “what, now?”

“I mean, only if you want.”

a few moments go by in silence, and Jon sees the worry in Martin’s eyes. the familiar hesitation. there’s always a time delay with this kind of things, and it is always the time it takes Martin to realise that Jon is being truthful.

“I do,” he says, eventually, looking straight into Jon’s eyes. “yeah, I do. just let me put the groceries in the fridge.” he moves back a little, hand lingering on Jon’s shoulder. “it’ll only take a minute, you can go first.”

Jon nods, smiling reassuringly, and does as he is told.

as he gets to the bedroom and sits on the duvets, he expects to feel nervous.

but it’s not that. he stares at the door, simply waiting for Martin to come in, and it’s not nervousness,and probably not even anticipation. it’s… longing. it doesn’t sting, nor hurt— it’s just a pull, an instinct that keeps him tensed, waiting for the other end of him.

it’s pretty nice, actually. reminds him that they are both still alive.

when Martin does get through the door, his eyes are shy. he has taken off his shoes and absolutely nothing else. his cheeks are red. he looks young.

“should I close the door?” he asks.

“if you want,” Jon says, noncommittally, and Martin closes it. he looks at Jon and moves a little further into the room, leaning on the wall in front of the bed. Jon smiles.

“hi,” he says.

Martin smiles back. “hi, Jon.”

“you look nice.”

“please shut up.”

Jon laughs, and gets up to wrap his arms around Martin’s neck. Martin closes his eyes for a moment, and relaxes into Jon’s touch. “you do look nice,” he repeats. Martin scrunches his nose andshakes his head. Jon laughs again, and leans in to kiss his cheek.

“so,” he whispers, cutting out every attempt Martin could have made at a counterargument, “can I? I won’t do anything particularly weird, just simply undress you. and you can tell me at any moment if you want me to stop."

Martin breaths deeply in his arms, and nods. “yes. yes, you can.”

despite everything, Jon does feel a little ridiculous. like this is a silly thing to try, after all, and perhaps Martin is just begrudgingly indulging him in his vanilla fantasies.

as he moves a step back and takes hold of Martin’s sweater, however, he forgets all about his worries. his brain just shuts down. there’s nothing left but whatever his senses can perceive.

no world no apocalypse no monsters— just the softness of Martin’s green sweater.

he begins pushing up the edges, and Martin immediately raises his arms. Jon pushes up until he can’t anymore, at which point Martin takes it off by himself and throws it on the bed.

he has a buttoned shirt underneath, neatly tucked into his pants, and Jon begins pulling it out of there until he can get his hands underneath it. there is still Martin’s undershirt in the way, so he pulls that out, too. when that is done, he gets closer, resting flat against Martin’s chest, and moves his hands up and down his bare back. Martin is warm under his touch, and Jon can feel the air rushing in and out of his lungs.

as Jon retracts his arms from Martin’s back, Martin instinctively moves back, and Jon takes his hand to stop him. “you can still hold me,” he says, gently, and Martin leans back in, something like relief shining in his eyes. 

Jon gets his hands in between their bodies, and begins unbuttoning Martin’s shirt. it’s calming, he thinks. there’s something about the absence of purpose, the freedom of the choice, that feels to him almost defiant— precisely because it is tender, and for no one else but them.

he unbuttons them slowly, taking his time with each of them, until he can slide it off Martin’s shoulders. he moves back a little for that, and when the shirt is on the floor and he raises his eyes to look at Martin, he finds him staring. “thank you,” Martin says, so quietly Jon isn’t sure he was supposed to hear it. he smiles, open and vulnerable, and Martin smiles back.

when he looks back down, Jon’s gaze lingers on Martin’s broad shoulders.

he raises both of his hands to Martin’s chest, and slides his fingers under the straps of his undershirt. the undershirt itself is pretty loose, worn over many years, at least, and so when Jon moves his hands just so, he manages to slide them down until Martin’s shoulders are bare. he lets his hands caress the skin there, and then leans forward to kiss it, just once.

Martin reaches for Jon’s waist, and Jon lets him hold on.

he waits a few moments before pushing the undershirt up, but as soon as he touches the fabric Martin takes it off himself.

there’s a rush to his movements that doesn’t sit well with Jon, and he realises with a sting of rage that Martin might be ashamed. that he might want Jon to look as soon as possible, so that he can regret his choices a little quicker, and Martin can face his future a little earlier.

Jon isn’t sure this has anything to do with Martin’s chest in particular— it’s probably just the weight of the moment, it’s probably just that Martin is constantly terrified Jon might reject him.

and Jon is _mad_ because Martin should not feel like this.

he can’t do anything with the rage, however, and so he draws himself back to Martin’s body, and tries to take care of it. show Martin that he is worth looking after.

he touches the few moles he finds, one by one, and runs his hand through the chest hair. he cups Martin’s belly and slides his hand up all the way to his neck.

“do you want to-“ Jon starts, looking down at himself, just simply wanting to let Martin in, convince him that this is not about to end, and Martin seems already relieved.

“yes,” he says, “yes, I. I do.”

Jon expects him to start from his clothes, but instead Martin moves forward and reaches behind Jon’s head to take off his hair tie. _on no_ , he thinks, _my hair is a mess, should have washed it this morning_ , just as Martin buries his hand in between the strands and ruffles them gently.

“I have wanted to do this for an eternity,” he whispers, awestruck, and Jon can't help but smile.

“glad I can make your dreams come true,” he replies, and Martin is so eastern and sincere when he smiles back, that it’s really, really hard to stop the tears from falling off of his eyes.

“I am glad, too,” he says, and then moves to take off his jumper.

Jon doesn’t even have to help him (advantages of being the taller one and all of that) and neither of them comments on the fact that it is Martin’s jumper Jon was wearing. under it, Jon just has a long-sleeved shirt. Martin takes that off, too, far quicker than Jon would have, and puts his hands on Jon’s chest.

at that point, he shuts his eyes and feels him breathe.

Jon covers Martin’s hands with his as if out of muscle memory, and thinks _I love you_ , and thinks _we are alive we are alive we are alive_. he, too, closes his eyes, and it is probably not the same as getting lost into sex, but it is nice. it is beautiful, even, and Jon forgets about the time and the place before he can realise he is not doing it on purpose.

he doesn’t even notice Martin has gotten closer until he feels his lips on his forehead.

“you can take off the rest, too, if you want,” he says, and Jon does.

he starts with the belt, then the button on Martin’s trousers, and then trousers themselves. he lets Martin do the same until they are wearing nothing but underwear.

“is this still okay?” he asks, and Martin nods.

“yes. what about you?”

“yes,” Jon says, and after just a small hesitation, they both take off their own underwear, almost at the same time. it feels really weird for a moment, as if it was a party game they had to time right, and Jon bursts into awkward giggles before he can help it. Martin tries to contain himself but he too loses it and just starts laughing along.

“sorry,” Jon says, after they both calm down, and Martin smiles and looks down on their naked bodies.

“it’s just- a bit weird when you actually get there.”

“maybe if I hadn’t told you that I find genitals ugly it would have been slightly less awkward.”

Martin laughs again, and gets a little closer. “maybe,” he says, and he finally pulls him in.

it’s a strange feeling. the air is cold around them and Jon can feel Martin’s warmth all over. every point of contact he has, he has it with Martin’s skin.

it’s hard to believe. _Martin Blackwood_ , he keeps thinking, _Martin Blackwood, that featureless co-worker I used to call incompetent._ the intimacy of the moment is almost too intense to bear, and still Jon’s head keeps circling back to the first times he looked at Martin differently— to the stings he felt in his heart whenever Martin would get into a room. the way they hurt and pulled and pushed.

 _I have been so stupid_ , he thinks. _I love you_ , he thinks, and struggles not to say it.

it’s Martin that pulls back first. he keeps hold of Jon’s hand, though, and guides him to the bed.

“it _is_ a little chilly,” he says as he gets under the duvets, and opes his arms for Jon to fall into them.

Jon feels his skin burning in quiet, tender embarrassment. “I hate when you do that,” he says, and Martin frowns.

“no you don’t.”

feeling like his nakedness might weaken any attempt to counterpoint, Jon just gives in and climbs into the bed. he fully lays on Martin’s body, and neither of them finds the energy to pretend they want it any other way.

for a while, they just look at each other. Jon traces the lines of Martin’s face with his finger, slowly, and Martin, on that only, smiles and shivers and blushes uncontrollably.

“shut up,” Martin tells him, before Jon can say anything, and Jon pretends to zip his lips and laughs anyway.

Jon doesn’t know how long they stay like that, cuddled in bed.

they don’t move much, and he is very much content with just breathing into Martin’s neck and caressing his hip (he has found he quite likes that spot; it feels sacred, perhaps on the simple ground that it is usually constantly hidden. he likes every spot of Martin’s skin, if he has to be completely honest, but he cannot touch everything at once).

Martin’s nails are a bit long ( _and_ somehow always clean and nicely shaped) and he ruthlessly drags them across Jon’s back, gently so that Jon can only faintly feel them. it’s a wonderful and infuriating sensation. after a few minutes he has had enough of goosebumps and so he says“please, stop,” once, twice, three times, four times until Martin stops laughing and does, indeed, stop (though Jon has to reach out and take his hand as to secure it in place and avoid further incidents).

the best and worst thing about the whole thing is that Jon feels completely fine, as though change weren’t coming. he hears Martin’s laugh, and it’s as if he hadn’t found him crying in the bathroom the night before— as if he will not cry again tomorrow. he feels Martin’s fingers in his hair, and he is so sure he will never ever turn into a monster, and he has never ever been one, and cannot, not ever, be anything but a fragile human being.

the world, he thinks, is just this: a bed and four walls, Martin and Jon. food in the fridge, dinner in half an hour, the phone boot downtown and a few friends they can call when the nights get too silent. there shouldn’t be anything else. there just shouldn’t be.

but even if there is, it’s not here now. and so what else is there to do now if not live?

Jon doesn’t have many chances, but he does have many choices, and so he takes the most absurd one he can think of, and he starts singing.

at first, he is quiet, and he doesn’t really mean for Martin to hear him.

he has always liked singing, though he has never done in front of someone else. he naturally sounds something akin to sort of okay, and it used to be the one thing he could comfort himself with.

at some point, however, he had stopped singing altogether, and when he raises his voice now the sound almost startles him.

he sings Bird on the Wire, from start to finish.

he lingers on the chorus ( _If I, if I have been unkind_ _/_ _I hope that you can just let it go by_ _/_ _If I, if I have been untrue_ _/_ _I hope you know it was never to you_ ), trips on his favorite verse ( _Like a baby, stillborn_ _/_ _Like a beast with his horn_ _/_ _I have torn everyone who reached out for me /_ _But I swear by this song_ _/_ _And by all that I have done wrong_ _/_ _I will make it all up to thee_ ) and smiles through the notes he doesn’t get.

it feels less cathartic than he would have expected. if anything, it feels… normal. it feels okay.

Martin doesn’t say anything at all, and when Jon looks at him as he whispers the last words, his eyes are closed.

“I can’t believe you hid this from me,” Martin whispers, and though he is clearly teasing, Jon can hear the edge of his voice and the tone of the words, and he just knows that Martin is trying really hard not to cry.

“mh,” he says, and moves up, just a little, until he is at Martin’s eye level.

“you are quite good at that.”

“I know. I do have many hidden talents.”

Martin smiles. he opes his eyes and a few tears stream down his face.

Jon reaches for them with his fingers, and wipes them off.

“I love you, too,” Martin says, and Jon doesn’t know, exactly, in what way the emotions he is feeling have transpired through his exterior persona, but something must be happening, because Martin laughs. Jon sighs and though by now he has realised he has, too, started crying, that does not stop him from getting on top of Martin and whispering “you _will_ pay for your crimes, Blackwood,” and begin tickling every bit of skin he can reach until they are both panting and Martin is apologising profusely in increasingly weirder ways and never once genuinely.

Jon keeps complaining and he never once means it.

they love each other and they both know it.

Jon doesn’t dare to ask for more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the bit of the poem Jon recites during the I love you scene is, again, by Pedro Salinas, and specifically from his collection My Voice Because Of You.  
> "as far as you’ve come / can’t be undone" is from "On Death, Without Exaggeration", by Wisława Szymborska and god I love this poem so much. for context, the last bit of the poem goes: "There’s no life / that couldn’t be immortal / if only for a moment. / Death / always arrives by that very moment too late. / In vain it tugs at the knob / of the invisible door. / As far as you’ve come / can’t be undone." [isn't it beautiful? aren't you CRYING? cause I am. I am. okay sorry]
> 
> Bird on the Wire is by Leonard Cohen. please listen to it. it /will/ make you cry


	3. Chapter 3

Martin writes the words on the back of his train ticket, the one from London to Scotland.

he puts them together as Jon is making dinner.

fortunately, he remembers most of them— future, if, coffee, silence, thanks, earned, beautiful, love.

there are a thousand in between, and for each of these moments there would be a thousand more he could keep. but he has to pinpoint the feelings somewhere, and he only ever knows how to do it if he is holding a pen.

he goes over them a few times, just to make sure they stand out. they don’t fit that well on the piece ofpaper, mostly because Martin’s calligraphy is fancier than required and he can’t write them small.

 _I really have to buy a notebook_ , he thinks. _or I won’t know where to write the others._

“Martin, do you know where the pepper is?” Jon asks, speaking over his thoughts, and Martin stands to help him find it.

“the sauce doesn’t smell that bad,” he says, as he kisses his cheek and leans in to look through the ridiculous amount of ingredients Jon displayed all over the kitchen, in case the pepper got lost in some corner.

“you of little faith,” Jon says, and Martin smiles. it _does_ smell nice.

it’s one of those moments, Martin thinks, where he can close his eyes without being afraid that Jon will somehow disappear. all things considered, keeping the fear would be the rational thing to do, but Martin likes it like this.

he hugs Jon from behind, head resting on his shoulder, as Jon steers the sauce and tries to find the goddamn pepper and complains about Martin’s presence without trying in any real capacity to move away from him, and knows that he likes it, exactly like this. _wants_ it like this, forever and ever, even if forever just means tomorrow.

“love you,” he whispers into Jon’s ear, and Jon smiles. 

“I love you, too,” he says, and, despite everything, a part of Martin has started to believe him.

* * *

(he writes it last on the train ticket, just before going to sleep: _forever_. it’s a long word, considering the space he has left is very limited, but it fits. as long as he can still read it, Martin is okay with it being smaller than the others. he puts the ticket into the book on his bedside table, and eventually comes back to Jon's side.) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you liked my story, and thank you lots for reading it [sorry for those lasts few lines. the only way I can cope with the apocalypse is writing about love within it] [also I managed not to quote any poems in this last small chapter! who would have thought? not me!]

**Author's Note:**

> [thanks for reading, and I am [mxrspider](https://mxrspider.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!]


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